A Hand
by PinkPoppy
Summary: Memories are what hold people together, so how do you keep a friendship going when your best friend can't remember who you are?


_9:14pm Thursday 7__th__ January 2010 _

_Patient No.221_

_Diagnosis upon arrival: Patient is unconscious. Blood loss mainly from large head wound upper right temple of the skull. A number of open grazes on upper right arm and right thigh. Three broken ribs and considerable bruising on surrounding chest area on the right hand side of torso. Breathing and organ function stable. No response. _

**12:00pm Monday 12****st**** march 2010**

**So I guess this is my blog. My therapist says I should record what happens in my life to allow my mind to accept and adjust to this new life.**

**First day of this, this dead life. **

**What the hell am I meant to say?**

**I'm angry. Angry, from the moment I wake, with the sun bleeding my eyes open, forcing this reality on me as I take my first breath conscious breath, till the silent and desolate hours of the morning that I fall back into darkness. **

**I am lost. I feel empty. I feel nothing. **

**The tell me to think, to concentrate and I've never wanted to hit so many people so hard. Of course I try to think, idiots. All I can remember is a hand reaching down towards me. To hold mine, to help me up or something. That's it. That's all I have….**

**Well blog. I guess that's it for now.**

**Catch. You. Later.**

**Sherlock Holmes.**

Minutes, hours, days, and then months. Each definition of time began to gradually build a wall around the incident. None of these periods of passing really had any meaning to John anymore, it was just time, time which he spent clung patiently by Sherlock's bedside near enough every waking moment he could without people worrying, bothering him, or taking him away from St Bart's. Watching. Waiting for him to spring out of bed in boredom, to say his name, to open his eyes, to move. Anything.

For the first time in two months, he was dreaming. He was in a large box room, polished steal walls and large diamond skylights that let in clean, pure natural light. The sound of test tubes being clinked and a microscope dial being turned, and john felt safe.

But now he was awake. He had opened his eyes and shot up from his seat with such force he had almost forgotten where he was. His first thoughts were almost certainly, am I still dreaming? But there, in front of him, gazing back… was Sherlock. The body that had lay motionless and lost to him for all that time was, back. His colleague, teacher, friend.

"Sher…..Oh my god." John felt heavy weight lifted from him, not being a religious man by any means but still, when you have nothing to lose, when there is no other option, when you don't know what to do, you pray and he would admit without a single doubt, that he prayed harder for Sherlock to live than he had even done so for his own life, "I'm just, I , I can't even tell you , I can't begin to tell you how, I'm just so glad your-"

But he didn't finish that sentence. Because Sherlock had something to say too. And John had never been so afraid of anything in his life….

There were colours. Dusty creams and blues that spiralled into each other, catching the light, gaining in number and slowly, they became brighter. They moved into shapes. Squares and rectangles at first, then ovals and a hand. There was a hand beside him on the bed. Hospital bed. This was a hospital bed. It was stiff and had white bars that held the sheets too tight, sheets with a recognisable sweaty plastic texture that could only be found, in a hospital.

As the man's vision crawled into focus aided by a great deal of blinking and gently rocking his head left to right, he could see the hand was, obviously, attached to the arm which was attached to the body of a short, exhausted looking male. He was asleep, and sprawled across a bedside table which, apart from the male, had an assortment of the strangest things; a violin, a deerstalker hat, a human skull and 3 large boxes of nicotine patches.

Moving even the slightest seem to have woken the his visitor, and as if he were a soldier upon hearing a roll call, his eyes burst open and struck the man's eye line. Something was very wrong. There, right in the pit of him, the man cause feel there was something terrible going on. Because he didn't feel. He couldn't find anything. No words or gestures or facial expressions to offer the stranger standing shaking before him.

But before his apology could be heard, it was too late. Two arms forced themselves around his body, clutching him in an embrace he was, for some reason, grateful for. And by some natural force that pushed him closer, the man too, hugged back.

Never before had he seen a smile like that. Every wrinkle made, every muscle used had a cause to do so, had a meaning behind it, so utterly genuine and trust worthy.

Though his face beamed with overwhelming emotion, his eyes, warm and sincere as they were, lay buried in amongst the lines under them, the deep shadows beneath his brow caused by long days and nearly non-existent night's sleep.

And he was talking to him, laughing in between breaths. Crying.

He had to say something, now…..

"I'm sorry, but, who are you?"

Thursday 7th January 2010

9:04pm

"And that's all you have to say is it?"

John's fingertips dug sharply into the large living room armchair he stood behind, as his stare cut through the room to meet Sherlock's.

"I've been, in every god damn bar within a half a mile of this place, asking anyone I could if they had seen you, if they knew where the hell you were, if you were okay because I, I was genuinely worried."

John had remained patient, composed till Sherlock had opened his slurring mouth, breathing the bitter smell of a dozen shots of vodka into the room and explained that "Everyone was an idiot, an ant, a meaningless fibre of dust, born to die and none of them worth his time" and that he should "waste someone else's time with emotional drivel and nonsensical whingeing about right and wrong"

"For god sake, just take a look at yourself Sherlock. What the hell have you become?"

"I, don't, care, what I am!" buckling under the vast amount of alcohol he'd consumed, Sherlock stumbled forward knocking a handful of books to the floor from the living room table, his flat mate lowering his head in disgust,

"God, and to think a few months ago I actually respected you"

"Oh, yet another mistake john, what a surprise" the words falling from Sherlocks mouth as his step swayed in the kitchen doorway.

"Yeah, yeah I suppose it's my fault isn't it?" john turned his head towards the long since abandoned cases blue tacked to the fireplace mirror, unfinished and ignored.

"You pissing off the Chief of police in public and him disbanding you from any further official police business, the smart arse comments you gave the press allowing them to turn on you, the drinking, the fights, all of it, all my fucking fault!"

The force of johns voice tore through the flat, stunning any background noise, the buzz of the kitchen light, the hum of the laptop, the traffic outside, all but the sound of a woman on the stairs. Her hands shaking, covering the lower half of her face as her cream coloured wrinkles cheeks caught the tears that fell from her eyes.

Both the men let out a small sigh in regret, "Well, this, this is something new, well done John I'm proud" the corners of Sherlocks lips curled into a pretend smile as he let his shoulder slump against the wood of the door, "Mocking peoples mistakes without caring about people getting hurt, bravo, we're becoming more alike every day" Sherlock followed with a slow, sarcastic clap.

After the third clap johns head darted sharply in Sherlocks direction, face tense and teeth clenched together, fists held by his side but still remaining mature enough not to lose his temper and become violent, instead john pointed at the open door and spoke very calmly,

"get out."

Sherlock cocked his head in disbelief, and began laughing, "W-what?" Sherlock staggered forward an agrogent and over confident grin across his face,

"Oh, Poor little John Watson, standing strong… barely" he chuckled gazing down at johns leg "this isn't the army, Doctor, your orders I'm afraid, count for shit here "

"I said .Get. Out." Before he could protest, Sherlock was being forced down the stairs of 221b and out onto the street, phone and scarf tossed to the ground and a gaggle of limbs fumbling to gather them. The street was empty though the road seemed to be buzzing with bars and trucks.

"You come back, when you've opened your fucking eyes Sherlock. When you can see, that people matter and you don't treat them like shit when all they've ever done, is protect you."

"Oh so modest Mr. Watson, really"

"Will you shut up for once in your god damn life, I'm not talk about me! I'm talking about Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, even your brother no matter how much you may hate each other still manages to ask how you are each week." John spoke with viscous tone and complete sincerity, though through the sickly, yellow glow streetlamps that illuminated the cold, damp pavements of Baker Street, Johns weakness in his eyes was as clear as day, because they had always given away his true emotions.

"But you, you don't care. You throw us aside because your ego takes over. And it hurts" the drizzle began to fall, starting as a thin mist, but growing thicker, until the droplets hammered down on the roofs of the vehicles parked in front of the flat.

"You can't d-do this to me, I'M SHERLOCK HOMLES!" he bellowed, throwing his arms wide like a sacrifice.

"YOU ARE FINISHED, YOU ARE NOTHING AND YOU ARE A MACHINE."

Sherlock stood at the edge of the pavement curb, still and silent, as if the words had punched him in the heart.

_If a machine had a heart, _he thought.

"Well. Then I suppose there's really nothing to say except…Goodbye John"

And with that, Sherlock raised his right hand, as he was so accustomed and called a taxi.

But the taxi had already passed, and the traffic was moving fast that night, so Sherlock then felt the blow of a metal grill, drive into the back of his skull. He felt the force of the truck grind his body into the concrete and the warm splash of fresh blood burst out of his skin and splatter his clothes. The light, the noise and even time became invisible as more and more of Sherlock bled out onto the streets of London. Memories, names, thoughts and feelings forgotten, deleting themselves with every passing beat of his frantic heart.

And then there was a hand, reaching down towards him. To help him, save him. Perhaps.


End file.
